


✧ SLEEPLESS IN SKYHOLD ✧

by felandaris



Series: Caboodles and Chantry Boys [12]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blindfolds, Chantry Boys, Consensual Sex, Cullenlingus, Cunnilingus, Domistair, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, NSFW, Nipple Play, Shameless Smut, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M, but alas this is all i have, dominant alistair, snoring, there was more to come in chapter 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 15:05:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9277313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felandaris/pseuds/felandaris
Summary: Kept awake not by one buttwosnoring ex-Templars... what's an Inquisitor to do?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thekeekster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekeekster/gifts).



> I wrote this in October/November 2015 and never posted it because I kept waiting for the motivation to finish the second chapter.  
> After finally admitting to myself that I probably won't ever write it I'm posting this chapter now.-It should work as an open-ended one-shot and given that it's over a year old I don't hate the writing as much as I'd expected.  
> I'm dedicating this to everyone who's ever lived with a snoring partner. I feel your pain.  
> I'm also gifting this to thekeekster, who has been a force of nature with her unwielding support and positivity. Do yourselves a favour and [check out her work.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thekeekster/pseuds/thekeekster)

Skyhold lies still in the firm grasp of night. Troops have long since ceased training, vendors have packed up their wares and everyone has retired to their quarters.

 

An argent trail of moonlight creeps in from the balcony, breaking up the various shades of darkness enveloping the room. The occasional chirp of a cricket, a lone owl’s hoot are the only sounds within miles of the Inquisitor’s chambers.

 

 _Almost_ the only sounds, that is.

 

Trevelyan sits up, huffing in powerless frustration. Sleep evades her again. And the reason is easily identified.

 

The affectionate glow in her chest fails to override her annoyance at the view of her two knights in peaceful, undisturbed slumber. Both snoring with enough deafening fervour to cut down half of the Brecilian Forest come the morning.

 

She yawns, leaning into the soothing rub of her fingers on a temple. This marks her second consecutive night of sleep deprivation.

 

It’s impossible to tell whether it’s the exhaustion from their much-applauded sparring exercise or the hearty meal causing them to emit these barely human noises. Or perhaps their earlier _exertions_ of a different sort- or some vicious, Maker-forsaken combination of all, designed solely to ensure the Inquisitor remains restless. _Again._

 

All she knows is that those drawn-out, guttural sounds - _which they take turns producing!_ \- have been keeping her tossing and turning for the better part of three hours. The ache in her lower back is now complemented by a pull in her shoulder.

 

Trevelyan’s grim chuckle to herself is drowned out by more sawing. With this kind of racket she could walk right into the spymaster’s office now and report on the relationship they’ve been working so hard to keep a secret.

 

She turns onto her front, pulling tired knees into her chest whilst extending her arms forward, groaning at the soothing stretch in her back. When her eyes focus she repeats the same utterance, albeit with a different motivation.

 

The change in position has brought her to face a bulky bicep to her left and within pinching distance of a flat male nipple on her right.

 

A chain of thoughts spirals through her fatigued mind as she sits back up. Another look around brings on a smile that widens a fraction with each detail she takes in.

The moonlight’s silvery shimmer traces more than highlights relaxed muscles, fine hairs rising and falling with the smooth skin they adorn. Parts that were standing rigidly erect mere hours ago lie shrivelled in tranquil slumber along with the bodies they’re attached to.

 

This tempting view and all the possibilities it presents have her suddenly excited, shivering with goose bumps at the onset of mischief the two so enjoy unleashing on her.

 

Trevelyan places a fingertip on Cullen’s leg where he’s half-kicked off the covers. She stifles a laugh, tracing a line upwards, just-so brushing over the fuzzy scrotum then past his cleft. When his buttocks twitch and a boar-like grunt disrupt his snore’s cadence, it’s all she can do not to break out in a giggle fit.

 

In a due reminder of his presence, Ferelden’s king gives a snort worthy of a druffalo in heat. Trevelyan cocks an eyebrow and moves in. Careful not to rouse him, she moves the blanket down to Alistair’s knees, revealing her target.

 

Impressive in size despite its slumberous state, the royal phallus sits against a sinewy thigh. It remains still as her breath tickles its shrunk length, gives no reaction when she pokes at the yet-hidden head through warm skin. Only when stroked by a fluttering kiss does it give the faintest throb, accompanied by the shift of a muscular torso and a barely conscious whimper.

 

The mattress dips as Trevelyan gets on all fours, shuffling closer before her tongue darts out. Its slow lap evokes a dreamy exhale. Heat pools between her legs and her toes tingle with awakening arousal as she watches the shaft thicken, stretching and filling with a rush of blood. Another lick, and her nub throbs when the glans pokes out. This time the rest of Alistair stirs too, his arms stretching, blindly reaching as his head rolls side to side.

 

But the question comes from behind, drowsy yet curious.

 

“What in the Void…?“

 

A quick glance over her shoulder reveals Cullen sitting up, curls tousled and lingering fatigue clouding his features. Comprehension sets in and his scar twitches. Trevelyan wets her lips before she turns back, making sure to stick out her bum. Pleased at his wince, she focuses back on His Highness, intent on _amplifying_ his emerging predicament. Trevelyan closes her eyes as her lips wrap around the head; sighs when her tongue scouts out the thin slit; hums as she swallows him down. She’s almost knocked back when Alistair shoots up. His confused gasp lengthens into an incredulous moan when he’s greeted with a smile from below his waistline.

 

Trevelyan’s gaze follow Alistair’s, and she grins around his now-proud erection at the look the men exchange. Cullen’s chest is heaving as he devours them both with a single stare. As ever, her lovers’ need stokes hers like little else. She grasps the girthy prick, twists her wrist as her head bobs up and down, swallowing the shallow thrusts, delighting in his strangled groans.

                                          

Her nose is nestled into a thatch of ginger curls when a finger dips between her labia. Too light to soothe her ache, its touch is still firm enough to pull a hiss from her. Alistair’s hips buck up and his cock jumps in her mouth.

 

A few assertive strokes have her grinding into Cullen’s hand, seeking depth, penetration, but before she can impale herself his digit is gone. Trevelyan peeks up towards where her knights are sharing another glance, one of their silent exchanges.

                      

Abandoning her ministrations, she sits up, about to ask something. Her question, however, comes out as a shriek and bubbles up into a giggle when four hands grab her, leaving her at their mercy as she sinks into the pillows.

 

At once her senses, her space are invaded by fingers, mouths, weight. By kisses, nibbles, caresses, the tickle of husky voices. By words she can’t grasp because she’s too busy enjoying her body’s surrender; miniscule hairs rising; skin warming with flush; nipples perking up; lust washing through her, leaving her centre damp and soft and sensitive.

 

From under heavy lids she catches their devious expressions. Her feet are wriggling in invitation, hands seeking out muscle and touch. As she’s about to grasp a meaty shaft on each side they move out of reach, shuffling down the bed as feather-light kisses scout past her collarbones.

 

Her lovers’ assault on her bosom is timed with military precision. She gasps when both their lips find a tender peak, assertive hands grab hold of supple flesh and they nestle at her side. Alistair’s fingertips trace her breast as he suckles her in complete abandon, haplessly rutting while mumbling sweet nonsense around a mouthful of her. Cullen’s touch is rougher, his grasp firm and the pull of his sucks so deep she _feels_ her pearl swelling, peeking out from under its hood.

 

There is something utterly gratifying about having not one but two greedy mouths devouring her. But it’s never possibly enough, so she arches up, shoving her breasts into their faces, cradling their heads to her chest, awed and titillated by their desire for her.

 

 _And not just for her._ She whines as they leave her, only to groan when they kiss right under her nose. Chins tilt, hands sneak out and tongues play. The tug of arousal in Trevelyan’s groin is becoming uncomfortable, the apex of her thighs slippery as she watches, listens to the smack of lips, the little sighs. They part for air, holding on tight as their heads rest on each other’s shoulders. Alistair plants absentminded pecks along Cullen’s neck as white teeth grasp his earlobe. Then whispers form out of heaving breaths, open mouths widen into secretive smiles.

 

_They’re scheming._

 

A playful glint lingers in their looks as they turn back to her. She couldn’t fathom what they’re up to now for she stretches out, eyes falling closed as she succumbs to their worship of her. Knowing fingers count her ribs, tickle her quivering tummy, recount the story of each scar in loving touch.

 

She writhes, trying to get at least a digit into her. But still they’re teasing. A shuffle and a rustle of pillows compel her into looking. Someone has lit the set of candles beside the bed. From Maker-only-knows-where Alistair has produced a cloth- a long, silken scarf, azure blue and embroidered. He leans in, brushing the cool material over her irate peaks. His low drawl sparks right through her.

 

“You know, Lady Trevelyan,” the scarf trails down her stomach. She stretches to catch up just the tip of it grazing her pearl before it’s gone. “You’ve been rather _naugh-ty_.”

 

Cullen nods. His baritone brushes over her ear, prickles in her quim. “Denying two tired men their well-deserved sleep.” Trevelyan hears him out despite the urge to protest. She raises a coy brow when he smirks, “It looks like you’re up for punishment, Inquisitor.”

Unable to hide a grin of her own, Trevelyan is certain she won’t dislike this _punishment_ quite so much. She sighs when the soothing material fastens over her eyes, hums when her head is lifted and the blindfold tightened. Gasps as she’s left without sight, her other senses springing to rapid attention. The sheets’ rustle, the musk of their lust, their glow engulfing her- her body soaks them all up, leaving her desperate, craving.

 

But nothing happens. Seconds, minutes pass. A sheer eternity of agonising emptiness, of skin straining for touch. Trevelyan’s toes dig into the mattress, her midriff lifts and she sobs, louder than she’d like.

 

A distant chuckle is all the reaction she gets. No movement, nothing else. At this point she is indeed feeling frustratingly disciplined. She sits up, resting on her elbows, tilting her head in disorientation as she starts speaking.

                                                                                                                                                                                          

Whatever she was going to say distorts into a yelp when the force of two bodies knocks her back down.

 

Her goose bumps, her peaks, the heat in her tummy perk up in eager anticipation. The clever seduction, however, is interrupted by a _thud_ then a duet of pained huffs as they seem to rub their foreheads. Amused surprise warms into a fresh rush of longing. Wide palms cup her bum, lifting her midriff into the hot stream of breath from _two_ faces. Every pore of her is aching, her labia slickening, nub pulsing. Trevelyan howls, bucking so hard they have to hold her down as the Commander’s lips find her bundle and His Majesty’s tongue sinks inside her.

 

Wet slurps, hungry smacks, delightfully obscene sounds fill the room. Trevelyan claws at a shoulder, tears out hairs as their skilful mouths suckle and fuck her. Each moan, every reaction she gives to a pull, to a jab has the other man growling, eating at her with more ferocity.

_Are they competing?_

 

If they are, she has no doubt it will be her emerging victoriously. Trevelyan is squirming, grinding her hips into the sloppy, torturous ministrations. Her own little cries and mewls blend in with the moist noises of their feast, their volume rising along with the prickle in her stomach. Its warm current flows through her, curling her toes, until one lick, or perhaps a suck, makes it spill over. Then she’s tightening, arching, reiterating mindless pleas as her world becomes heat and pleasure.

 

Light stings in her eyes as the blindfold comes off. But any discomfort is eased by pecks on her heaving chest, coos into her tousled hair, by fingertips soothing the burn on her cheeks. For a blissful moment she lies cosily sandwiched between her men. Her own heartbeat slows as she listens to quieting breaths, content sighs. But respite is brief. On her left, Alistair props himself up on an elbow, his gaze coaxing Cullen’s away from the flank he’s caressing.

 

“I won.”

 

“No, you didn’t.” Cullen snorts, shaking his head.

 

Both men sit up, eyes meeting only to traverse down the other’s bodies in challenging appraisal. Alistair reaches out to stroke Cullen’s forehead, down his temple, his jawline. Then, in a burst of sudden energy, he all but leaps across, making Trevelyan flinch. King settles over Commander, tracing the outline of his arms in a tender caress before pinning them down above his head. Cullen’s breath hitches, and Trevelyan doesn’t miss the brief twitch of his cock between their bodies.

 

Predatory lust curves Alistair’s swollen lips into a smile as his back rises in a slow arch before a sharp thrust of slim hips evokes a surprised moan. His grin widens.

 

“It would seem that I have.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> [Find me (and the boys) on Tumblr!](https://http://cullenstairshenanigans.t%20Tumblr.com) ʘ‿ʘ


End file.
